


Revitalise

by varooooom



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:07:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/varooooom/pseuds/varooooom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When you have the ability to shape the whole of existence at your will, it's difficult to find something worthy enough to stop you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revitalise

**Author's Note:**

> Complimentary piece to [Invigorate](http://archiveofourown.org/works/531712) that I didn't think I'd actually write. Random inspiration, man, it's a weird thing.
> 
> Same warnings apply, you might wanna read that one first as it gives a bit of context? But it's not absolutely necessary, and sex is a lot less explicit. I need to write more porn after all these sads.

Arthur's told him before that, when he enters the field of combat, his vision narrows down to the task at hand. All else seems to fade away, he says; there is only you and your opponent and then the next after him; a drive to keep moving, to _stay_ moving where one falter could be the death of you. Drive takes over and leaves humanity behind, leaves only the next strike there and the right parry here with no quarter for remorse. There is no room for it when not only your life but your men's lives, the lives of your people depend on meeting your mark, and Merlin - Merlin gets that. 

Or, he _understands_ that, has felt it himself during minor skirmishes and the typical attack in the woods that Arthur's stupid fat head always manages to attract. In those moments, it's always fallen to the singular purpose of getting out alive, or at least making sure Arthur's royal pain in the arse does. Merlin thinks he understands, but.

But war? _Actual_ war, and not bandits or a trespassing guard or the odd sorcerer or twelve with a thirst for Pendragon blood - real, honest war on the backs and blood of men?

Gods, it's so different. So terribly, awfully different.

Long gone are the days when Merlin had to hide his talents from the Court. He has gained the people's trust and found his rightful place at Arthur's side, and he has _earned_ that. Has fought and bled and given _everything_ to reach this point, to serve Albion without hiding who he is, to serve _Arthur_ , unrelenting and without restraint. When he stands before a rival army, he is free to step into his power, to realise the extent of it and let it loose, like easing into your favourite pair of trousers that has been shaped and worn to fit you perfectly, like wearing a second skin. It's natural and easy and _exhilarating_ , finally being of _worth_ to Arthur and the kingdom without being his fool servant, and he expects that precise sensation of focus that Arthur tells him of, expected. Expected. He knows better now.

It's nothing of the sort for him. When he's faced with thousands of men, line after line of Camelot's enemies, and Arthur steps into that narrow vision of battle, Merlin expands beyond it. Merlin lets his magic in, lets it wash over him, and suddenly he can see _everything_. Time will slow for him, alter and warp as he pleases, and Merlin can see a single blade of grass bowing beneath the foot of the on-coming assault. The wind pulses around him, charged and ready and waiting for his command as Arthur guides his Knights and Merlin guides the elements. This is his dominion, his reign, and it fills him to bursting until it's all he knows. It's all he knows.

The sound of steel against steel, men shouting and crying and falling; the heat of flame and blood licking all across the land in endless seas of red; the thundering of a hundred thousand heartbeats on a field and Merlin can feel every single one. He feels the earth beneath them churning and growing and thriving and dying. He feels the skies above them tearing open and sealing shut, turning to every drumbeat Merlin thrums with his fingertips. He sees everything and feels everything and becomes everything, because he is borne of nature's essence and her spirit and it is within him as it is within all things, and it becomes him.

Merlin lets body ignite into the atmosphere, encroaching upon the stars until it's all he knows. It's _everything_.

And then there's Arthur. Arthur, he's - he's everything too. The Sun and the stars, the earth at Merlin's feet. Arthur is everything, and everything is _his_ , Merlin's, _mineminemine_ , because that is his power and that is his will and it will bend to him. It will bow and break before him, because that is his strength, that is _his_.

 _His_ Sun, so perfect and golden and beautiful. Scarred and battle worn, battered all over and so warm and yielding beneath Merlin's touch, so easy to mould at his fingertips. Arthur will taste of earth, _Merlin_ 's earth, and he will devour it, consume it as his own. The flow of Arthur's lifeblood beneath his tongue, the frightened pitch of his heartbeat beneath his teeth; Merlin could have it, could take it without even needing to blink, and he _wants_.

He wants _everything_ , as it is his to take. It is his birthright, as the child of Everything, and this is his power, his strength. He can bend it all and Arthur - Arthur _yields_. Perfect, beautiful Arthur, he gasps and moans and breaks for Merlin. His greedy little hole swallows Merlin's prick and lets him breach him, over and over, slamming into that tight, hot heat until Merlin is blind with it, and Arthur _writhes_. It's filthy and sinuous, this gorgeous man covered in dirt and sweat and blood, the earth's essence, _Merlin_ 's essence.

His, his. Merlin fucks him because he's _his_ , because it's _his_ name on Arthur's lips, because Arthur is everything and everything is Merlin's. Merlin wants everything, he wants - Arthur. He wants Arthur, needs him -

Oh god, he needs him. Needs him, only him, only Arthur and fuck, _fuck_ ; it _hurts_ when he comes, when he slams into that private space that belongs only to him - not as a birthright but because Arthur _gave_ it to him. Not because he could take it, but because Arthur could give it, and he does. He does, he gives it all to Merlin. He gives everything from the sky and the sea to the blue in his eyes, that beautiful blue, precious blue, Arthur's blue, looking right at him with love and loyalty and trust.

Merlin can see him. He can see Arthur, the most powerful man alive, Albion's King, the Once and Future - and Merlin could break him so easily, so easily, and he comes apart beneath him. His King, his everything, and he's - he's hurt. Merlin can hurt him, _hurts_ him.

He withdraws carefully, hands shaking with the lingering power, that hidden potential that lives under his skin and nowhere else. Not outside him or above him or around him but within him. Not the earth, not the air - just ... just Merlin.

Just "Merlin," Arthur's ruined voice, a tired, sword calloused hand wrapping around Merlin's shaking _shaken_ wrist and pulling him against him. He pulls him close, warm skin pressed into warm skin to blend together, to sink into each other and that's all the power Merlin needs. Just Arthur's heart, safe and steady beneath Merlin's hand and when he weeps, it hurts. It hurts so much, he knows so much and can feel _so much_ and all of it _hurts_ , but Arthur only holds him. Holds him and kisses him and soothes him, gives all of himself to this weak and flawed man of magic. Gives himself because he _wants_ to, not because he _has_ to, and what more could Merlin want? What more could he want of the earth and the heavens when he can have Arthur?

This perfect, wonderful man of Men, who promises to bring him back, who always brings him back from the edge, from death and life and the power over both; Arthur holds him close as Merlin.

And Merlin - Merlin will have to be good enough, because Arthur is everything Merlin could ever want, and he's all he'll ever need.


End file.
